Crossing the Creative/Critical Divide

Tag Archives: Bath

The writer Moyra Caldecott, passed away peacefully on 23 May, a week shy of her 88th birthday, in Bath, a city she wrote about in two of her novels, The Winged Man and The Waters of Sul. Meeting her soon after moving to the city in 1996, she became a dear friend and enthusiastic supporter of my writing. She gave me advice that has served me well ever since: ‘Write the book you want to read’. Following this, I went on to write my first novel, The Long Woman (Awen, 2004). A series followed, The Windsmith Elegy, and Moyra dutifully read and praised every one, alongside my poetry and non-fiction. Having an experienced, well-published writer encourage me in this was very affirming and motivational.

Moyra was born in Pretoria, Transvaal, South Africa, in 1927. She received a good education at Natal University and was awarded a degree in English and Philosophy, and an MA in English Literature. In 1950 she moved to Cape Town, where she met her husband, Oliver Caldecott, a key anti-Apartheid campaigner. When the crack down on the anti-Apartheid movement made it too dangerous for the Caldecotts to stay, they moved to England in 1951. They married and were to be blessed with 3 intelligent, talented children, a daughter and two sons, who matured in an artist, scientist and writer, respectively. Oliver worked as in publishing, as Chief Editor for Penguin Fiction, in the 1960s, before starting his own publishing house in the 70s, Wildwood House, but Moyra, who started to write in her late 40s, got published by her own merits. Her first novel was published in her early 50s, and she went on to have over 30 novels and non-fiction books published. Her best known work is the Guardians of the Tall Stones trilogy, inspired by the Avebury World Heritage site. She was fascinated by Prehistory, by Celtic Tradition, but was also very knowledgeable about other traditions and faith systems, as her non-fiction collections illustrated (Crystal Legends; Myths of the Sacred Tree; Mythical Journeys, Legendary Quests).

Another well-received trilogy about ancient Egypt, focusing on Akhenaten and Hatshepsut (The Son of the Sun; The Daughter of Ra; The Ghost of Akhenaten) led to Moyra being contacted by the pop star Tina Turner, who paid for her to accompany her to Egypt, acting as a personal guide to the ancient sites – an experience which Moyra spoke of with fondness and delight.

In the Spring of 1989, with Oliver’s health failing, they moved to Bath. He had become an artist in his later years, creating pictures which Moyra treasured. In November of that year Oliver passed away. They had been married for nearly 40 years.

Moyra was a founder member of the (now dormant) Bladud Society, dedicated to raising awareness about Bath’s Celtic heritage. In my time as Bard of Bath (1998-9), I organised monthly gatherings at the Bladud’s Head in Larkhall. In the first Bardic Festival of Bath, in 1998, Moyra gave an excellent talk on Bladud and Sulis, and the healing springs of the city (Aquae Sulis). She was an eloquent and engaging speaker. She said of her novels: ‘Some people have asked me if they are memories. I certainly believe life, and our experience of it, is complex and multi-dimensional, and the borders of time and space have no relevance to our consciousness, of which the imagination is an important and integral part.’

In her later years she liked to perform her visionary poetry at local open mics until she lost the power of speech. Then friends were to step in and offer to read poems on her behalf at various events, some of which I organised at local bookshops and pubs.

Moyra was made an Honorary Bard of Caer Badon (Bath) in 2005, in recognition of her works and continuing inspiration.

A memoir of her life, Multi-dimensional Life, was published on her 80th birthday by Bath-based Mushroom Books. She is survived by her 2 of her 3 children, her daughter, the glass artist Rachel, and son, the biologist Julian Caldecott.

Last Tuesday my German friend O visited (a month before she gets hitched to a fellow storyteller) and we went to Avebury to rendezvous with Z, resident of The Lacket – her family home nearby in a ridiculously picturesque National Trust village. If you can imagine a filmset for a movie about fairies intruding on a quaint English hamlet, this would be how it would look … but it’s for real. A line of thatched cottages surrounded by recumbent sarsen stones, Lockeridge Dene feels as though it straddles the worlds between mortals and the Good Folk. In exchange for giving our hostess some feedback on the incredible story she is writing about her and her famous grandmother, who was married to Scott of the Antarctic, we got to stay the night. We shared stories by the fire in the ‘Little Room’ as the living room is known, the shelves and walls steeped in history (rare volumes; memento mori; old photographs of famous friends and relatives).

The Little Room, at the Lacket

Sipping sherry left over from her father’s funeral and eating some creamy camembert on home-made rye bread, we talked into the wee small hours. Then I staggered out into the night – and nearly ‘drowned’ in the sea of stars above my head – a spectacular star-field, due to the lack of light pollution (or anything from the 20th or 21st century) around. I stumbled my way to the Roundabout – the cute thatched ‘gnome’ house which was to be my bedroom for the night. I felt very privileged to be staying in such a place. Thank you Zzzzz…

Gnome, sweet, gnome – The Roundabout, my bedroom at the Lacket

The Lacket

Stars like sarsens

scattered across the sky’s meadow.

A house heavy with bristly thatch,

eaves, a furrowed brow.

Timbered frame riddled with history,

the ghosts of literati,

dubious diplomats,

the Polar extremes of Scott and Peter Pan

(the explorer’s son named

after their friend Barrie’s creation).

A lost father immortalised in the Neverland of ice,

leaving Wendy to run the house.

The garden, a habitat of Tinkerbells,

hedges good enough for a Woolf to jump in.

A cow-licked meadow

of glacial erratics,

a stone circle workshop,

Avebury in utero.

Here, great dreams and fragile visions are born,

eminent Victorians nurtured,

erudite Edwardians pandered,

visiting diplomats indulged.

Ineluctably, at the Lacket,

magic is forged,

protected in a vale of deep peace,

where time takes a hiatus

(wristwatches stop in the middle of the night,

stuck on the Roundabout of dreams).

A funeral sherry is sipped

in the snug of the Little Room,

beneath the sepia gazes of

the famous and familial.

The timbers, spines of rare books,

stained with the centuries of

mercurial repartee, firefly passion, hearts

breaking like an Antarctic ice-shelf,

minds locked into themselves,

imprisoned in the past,

imaginations roaming free.

Kevan Manwaring

July 2013

The next day, we went for a walk up Cherhill with Kevin, gurned to the camera in front of the Lansdowne monument and white horse, before ending up at the Black Horse for some quaffing.

Cherhill sunset

The next day I accompanied O to Bath, and met up with my Icelandic friend, Svanur (aka, ‘The Viking’ as we affectionately call him), who was passing through town on his way back to his homeland, where he works as a tour guide. The last time I’d seen him was Easter 2012 in Cornwall, so we had alot of catching up to do – which we did over a few beers. His wife, Suzanne, and friends joined us for a pleasant afternoon sat in the beer garden of the Pig and Fiddle. Skol!

The Viking in Bath!

On Saturday my friend Robin visited and we walked the Wansdyke – even though we set off at 4pm, the heat was still formidable, and it was hard work to get up onto the ridge. Stretching from Bristol to Marlborough, this ancient earthwork is attributed to the Danes, hence its name, Wansdyke, or ‘Woden’s Ditch’, but it might well pre-date this. The fact it links several significant ancient sites – hill-forts, long barrows, and camps – makes it feel more like a processional route than a defensive structure. This is certainly how it feels, walking along it. I remember once on the way to Tan Hill (its highest point, and site of a famous fair) I found a verse and melody popped into my head, something along the lines of ‘I’m on my way to Tan Hill Fair, I hope to find my true love there.’ It seemed to arise out of the rhythm of my progress along the ancient way – the May trees, in full blossom, enhancing the sense this was the sacred route to the Hill of Bel-Tane. Higher up, there was a trace of pleasant coolness, and the going was far easier – it felt like one was a giant striding over the land; that one could go on for miles. Just as well, as we had several to go to our destination – the Barge Inn, Honeystreet, where there was a summer knees-up – and the shadows were lengthening (‘our shadows taller than our souls’). By the time we dropped down into the Vale of Pewsey and made our way along the tow-path to the pub, the sound of revelry guiding us, it was getting dark. We arrived five and half hours after setting out, having walked around 12-3 miles, with detours (navigational haziness; a Roman road that was now a blocked right of way; a vast field with no way out like the one in Ben Wheatley’s new film ‘A Field in England’). We were in need of sustenance – alas, the kitchen had shut. The slender bar-maid failed to inform me there was a BBQ, so I got us some Ford Prefect peanuts and myself, a pint of ‘Croppie’ (de rigeur in Wiltshire’s legendary crop-circle pub, a favourite watering hole for cerealogists, stranded aliens and yokels). These were consumed with ravenous haste. Then I managed to grab the last veggie-burger (minus a bun) and some cake – thus was our West Country repast for the night. Fortunately, the beer was good and the atmosphere pleasant. We sat and watched the bands for a bit – even vaguely dancing at one point, although the swaying might have been more from exhaustion, and being on the state of collapsed. Replete with the fullness of the day, we staggered off to find a place to wild-camp, which we did, nearby in Alton Barnes, by the squat Saxon church – found at the end of a Corpse-path in the middle of a field. Dog-tired, we didn’t notice any ghosts – only something rustling in the undergrowth and the police helicopter overhead, searching for rogue males, no doubt! Nevertheless, it was a peaceful and pleasant night’s sleep – it was so warm, a mat and sleeping bag was all that was needed. I awoke, hearing the first bird break the dawn – before being joined by the feathered choir for the morning’s chorus.

Robin on Adam’s Grave

We arose and walked up to the ridge, stopping at Adam’s Grave, a long barrow, to enjoy the sublime view – the mist burning off in the Vale below. It was only 7am and we had the whole morning before us, a good feeling – and practical, as we avoided the heat of the day. Following a seldom frequented stretch of the Ridgeway, we reached Avebury from the south in a couple of hours, arriving via the Avenue of menhirs (this was about my fourth time walking up it in a month and it was starting to feel like Groundhog Day). We’d run out of water, so replenished our bottles, and I brewed up by the roadside like a tinker. There were no buses back to Calne, alas – so we grabbed some sarnies from the NT cafe, and hoiked ourselves along the road, thumbing up. Drivers looked at us as though we were escaped criminals. Fortunately, at the Beckhampton roundabout an old hitcher on his way back from a car-boot took mercy and gave us a lift up the road – it wasn’t far (7 miles) but boy, were we grateful: my feet were blistered enough by the time we got back. Limbs scratched and dripping sweat, this bardic bod was in a sorry state – but I felt exhilarated too. Our footloose foray had been a success. We freshened up and had some lunch – again, the simplest food can be so satisfying when you have a proper appetite (and not just eating out of habit). I got changed and ready for a tour I was due to lead in Bath – no rest for the bardic! I gave Robin a lift to Chippenham station, then blatted it over to Aquae Sulis, where I met up with a couple of Americans from Maryland, on a whistle-stop tour of English culture spots (Winchester, Stonehenge, Avebury…). Despite being wiped out by my Wansdyke walk and the heat, I think I acquitted myself well. An hour and a half later, I was given a very nice tip and bought a pint of Bell-ringer in the Coer-de-Lion, Bath’s smallest pub – this most certainly needed to lay the dust of the road down, like the pump used to do by the Marden river in Calne. By the time I got back to the Wiltshire town I was not much more than a bardic zombie, shuffling around sore-footed and staring, looking for a take-away.

The following night I went back to Bath for the Storytelling Circle at the Raven, which I used to run. It is now hosted by David Metcalfe, a fellow Fire Spring member. At first, there was only a handful of ‘usual suspects’ there, but it rapidly filled up and there was a good crowd and an entertaining cross-section of offerings. I told the story of The Far-travelled Fiddler from my forth-coming collection of ‘Northamptonshire Folk Tales’ – being published by The History Press – in the week I had received a proof of the gorgeous cover from Katherine Soutar. To see seeds sown in early Spring (when I submitted the manuscript) come to fruition is immensely satisfying, and offers some consolation for my ‘exile’ in one-horse Calne, which the visit of friends and various sortees makes more bearable.

Last Tuesday my German friend O visited (a month before she gets hitched to a fellow storyteller) and we went to Avebury to rendezvous with Z, resident of The Lacket – her family home nearby in a ridiculously picturesque National Trust village. If you can imagine a filmset for a movie about fairies intruding on a quaint English hamlet, this would be how it would look … but it’s for real. A line of thatched cottages surrounded by recumbent sarsen stones, Lockeridge Dene feels as though it straddles the worlds between mortals and the Good Folk. In exchange for giving our hostess some feedback on the incredible story she is writing about her and her famous grandmother, who was married to Scott of the Antarctic, we got to stay the night. We shared stories by the fire in the ‘Little Room’ as the living room is known, the shelves and walls steeped in history (rare volumes; memento mori; old photographs of famous friends and relatives). Sipping sherry left over from her father’s funeral and eating some creamy camembert on home-made rye bread, we talked into the wee small hours. Then I staggered out into the night – and nearly ‘drowned’ in the sea of stars above my head – a spectacular star-field, due to the lack of light pollution (or anything from the 20th or 21st century) around. I stumbled my way to the Roundabout – the cute thatched ‘gnome’ house which was to be my bedroom for the night. I felt very privileged to be staying in such a place. Thank you Zzzzz…

The Lacket

Stars like sarsens

scattered across the sky’s meadow.

A house heavy with bristly thatch,

eaves, a furrowed brow.

Timbered frame riddled with history,

the ghosts of literati,

dubious diplomats,

the Polar extremes of Scott and Peter Pan

(the explorer’s son named

after their friend Barrie’s creation).

A lost father immortalised in the Neverland of ice,

leaving Wendy to run the house.

The garden, a habitat of Tinkerbells,

hedges good enough for a Woolf to jump in.

A cow-licked meadow

of glacial erratics,

a stone circle workshop,

Avebury in utero.

Here, great dreams and fragile visions are born,

eminent Victorians nurtured,

erudite Edwardians pandered,

visiting diplomats indulged.

Ineluctably, at the Lacket,

magic is forged,

protected in a vale of deep peace,

where time takes a hiatus

(wristwatches stop in the middle of the night,

stuck on the Roundabout of dreams).

A funeral sherry is sipped

in the snug of the Little Room,

beneath the sepia gazes of

the famous and familial.

The timbers, spines of rare books,

stained with the centuries of

mercurial repartee, firefly passion, hearts

breaking like an Antarctic ice-shelf,

minds locked into themselves,

imprisoned in the past.

Kevan Manwaring

July 2013

The next day, we went for a walk up Cherhill with Kevin, gurned to the camera in front of the Lansdowne monument and white horse, before ending up at the Black Horse for some quaffing.

The following morning I went to Bath with O and met up with an Icelandic friend I hadn’t seen for yonks (Easter 2012). Over a few beers in the Pig and Fiddle we caught up. Svanur, aka ‘the Viking’ as we call him, is a tour guide in Iceland and was on his way back home. Skol!

On Saturday my friend Robin visited and we walked the Wansdyke – even though we set off at 4pm, the heat was still formidable, and it was hard work to get up onto the ridge. Stretching from Bristol to Marlborough, this ancient earthwork is attributed to the Danes, hence its name, Wansdyke, or ‘Woden’s Ditch’, but it might well pre-date this. The fact it links several significant ancient sites – hill-forts, long barrows, and camps – makes it feel more like a processional route than a defensive structure. This is certainly how it feels, walking along it. I remember once on the way to Tan Hill (its highest point, and site of a famous fair) I found a verse and melody popped into my head, something along the lines of ‘I’m on my way to Tan Hill Fair, I hope to find my true love there.’ It seemed to arise out of the rhythm of my progress along the ancient way – the May trees, in full blossom, enhancing the sense this was the sacred route to the Hill of Bel-Tane. Higher up, there was a trace of pleasant coolness, and the going was far easier – it felt like one was a giant striding over the land; that one could go on for miles. Just as well, as we had several to go to our destination – the Barge Inn, Honeystreet, where there was a summer knees-up – and the shadows were lengthening (‘our shadows taller than our souls’). By the time we dropped down into the Vale of Pewsey and made our way along the tow-path to the pub, the sound of revelry guiding us, it was getting dark. We arrived five and half hours after setting out, having walked around 12-3 miles, with detours (navigational haziness; a Roman road that was now a blocked right of way; a vast field with no way out like the one in Ben Wheatley’s new film ‘A Field in England’). We were in need of sustenance – alas, the kitchen had shut. The slender bar-maid failed to inform me there was a BBQ, so I got us some Ford Prefect peanuts and myself, a pint of ‘Croppie’ (de rigeur in Wiltshire’s legendary crop-circle pub, a favourite watering hole for cerealogists, stranded aliens and yokels). These were consumed with ravenous haste. Then I managed to grab the last veggie-burger (minus a bun) and some cake – thus was our West Country repast for the night. Fortunately, the beer was good and the atmosphere pleasant. We sat and watched the bands for a bit – even vaguely dancing at one point, although the swaying might have been more from exhaustion, and being on the state of collapsed. Replete with the fullness of the day, we staggered off to find a place to wild-camp, which we did, nearby in Alton Barnes, by the squat Saxon church – found at the end of a Corpse-path in the middle of a field. Dog-tired, we didn’t notice any ghosts – only something rustling in the undergrowth and the police helicopter overhead, searching for rogue males, no doubt! Nevertheless, it was a peaceful and pleasant night’s sleep – it was so warm, a mat and sleeping bag was all that was needed. I awoke, hearing the first bird break the dawn – before being joined by the feathered choir for the morning’s chorus.

We arose and walked up to the ridge, stopping at Adam’s Grave, a long barrow, to enjoy the sublime view – the mist burning off in the Vale below. It was only 7am and we had the whole morning before us, a good feeling – and practical, as we avoided the heat of the day. Following a seldom frequented stretch of the Ridgeway, we reached Avebury from the south in a couple of hours, arriving via the Avenue of menhirs (this was about my fourth time walking up it in a month and it was starting to feel like Groundhog Day). We’d run out of water, so replenished our bottles, and I brewed up by the roadside like a tinker. There were no buses back to Calne, alas – so we grabbed some sarnies from the NT cafe, and hoiked ourselves along the road, thumbing up. Drivers looked at us as though we were escaped criminals. Fortunately, at the Beckhampton roundabout an old hitcher on his way back from a car-boot took mercy and gave us a lift up the road – it wasn’t far (7 miles) but boy, were we grateful: my feet were blistered enough by the time we got back. Limbs scratched and dripping sweat, this bardic bod was in a sorry state – but I felt exhilarated too. Our footloose foray had been a success. We freshened up and had some lunch – again, the simplest food can be so satisfying when you have a proper appetite (and not just eating out of habit). I got changed and ready for a tour I was due to lead in Bath – no rest for the bardic! I gave Robin a lift to Chippenham station, then blatted it over to Aquae Sulis, where I met up with a couple of Americans from Maryland, on a whistle-stop tour of English culture spots (Winchester, Stonehenge, Avebury…). Despite being wiped out by my Wansdyke walk and the heat, I think I acquitted myself well. An hour and a half later, I was given a very nice tip and bought a pint of Bell-ringer in the Coer-de-Lion, Bath’s smallest pub – this most certainly needed to lay the dust of the road down, like the pump used to do by the Marden river in Calne. By the time I got back to the Wiltshire town I was not much more than a bardic zombie, shuffling around sore-footed and staring, looking for a take-away.

The following night I went back to Bath for the Storytelling Circle at the Raven, which I used to run. It is now hosted by David Metcalfe, a fellow Fire Spring member. At first, there was only a handful of ‘usual suspects’ there, but it rapidly filled up and there was a good crowd and an entertaining cross-section of offerings. I told the story of The Far-travelled Fiddler from my forth-coming collection of ‘Northamptonshire Folk Tales’ – being published by The History Press – in the week I had received a proof of the gorgeous cover from Katherine Soutar. To see seeds sown in early Spring (when I submitted the manuscript) come to fruition is immensely satisfying, and offers some consolation for my ‘exile’ in one-horse Calne, which the visit of friends and various sortees makes more bearable.

I never got into thesp-dom, but perhaps it’s not too late to start! Within the last seven days I’ve experience theatre from both ends – as performer and punter – and I love it.

Over the last few weeks me and my bardic chums in Fire Springs (Anthony Nanson; Kirsty Hartsiotis; David Metcalfe) have been busy preparing for a commission we got for the Bath Lit Fest 2012 – a show called ‘Forgotten Voices, Inspiring Lives’, about historical personages from Bath’s glorious heritage. It was premiered at the Holburne Museum last Sunday – straight after the Bath Half Marathon, which had taken over Great Pulteney Street (not exactly helping access to our venue). You’d have to be a bit of an athlete to get to it – jumping the various hurdles and weaving through the madding hordes. With David as our bardic anchor-man – providing a through line in the voice of Bladed, Bath’s legendary founding father – Anthony, Kirsch and myself portrayed historical characters we had picked from Victorian times to the Dark Ages. I opted for Walter Savage Lander – an eccentric and cantankerous poet renowned for his strong opinions; and John Riggs-Miller, husband of Lady Miller, famed for her vase and poetical contest in Bathetic (a kind of Georgian eisteddfod). It was great fun dressing up and getting paid for it – although it was a lot of work and quite scary. The show was more challenging than our usual comfort zone of traditional storytelling. Unlike our usual extempore low-phi style, this was semi-scripted, and in costume – we ‘channelled’ the personalities, adopting their voices and manner. My gruff voice for Lander was enhanced by a sore throat! The show seemed to go down well with the audience we had – could have had a few more there, as ever, but considering it was a glorious sunny afternoon and everyone and their dog was slogging the streets of Bath, we did well. I hope we get to do the show again – perhaps at a small theatre in the city, or as part of some cultural event…?

Getting us in the mood and showing how far we have to come as actors, was an impressive one-man show Anthony and I went to see on Friday night with a couple of fellow storytellers, La and Mark, at the Rondo Theatre in Lark hall (where we made our professional debt as Fire Springs over a decade ago with our first show, Arthur’s Dream). Phoenix Rising – about the early life of DH Lawrence – was performed with complete authority and commitment by the astoundingly talented Paul Slack. His was a committed and intense tour-de-force – embodying not only the older Lawrence, but also his younger self, his mother and father, his first muse and flings. It was astonishing to see – it was as though Lawrence was in the room with us, and considering we were in the front row – up close and personal at that. It was such an embodied performance – and was not only a feat of memory, but also energy. Yet he kept the small but attentive audience gripped until the end. This wasn’t just our good will – but because he was magnetic, exuding Lawrence charisma, his atavistic lean. Both down-to-earth and visionary – cutting through the crap with his unpretentious Northernness, while at the same time pushing the envelope of the times – Lawrence was a flawed prophet who reached beyond his age. We chatted to Paul afterwards and he was very approachable and generous in his respect for the storytelling craft. He had performed the show about sixty times – right across the world – and was looking forward to a change now. Having spent a lot of time with Lawrence, one can perhaps understand his need to move on. DH might have been one of the most important writers of the twentieth century, but he was probably difficult company.

This week I visited London – ostensibly to see another one-man show – although the highlight was actually catching up with a dear old friend from Northampton, Rob Goodman – an actor. He’s been living in London for a number of years now and has been in several films, TV shows and ads, as well as treading the boards as both actor and director. A true thesp, he’s also very down-to-earth (comes with being Northampton born and bred…) and amusing. We had a lot of catching up to do – twenty years worth … but it felt like the ‘old days’, back at 13 East Park Parade – where a weird convergence of artists, occultists, actors and ‘perfumed ponces’ gathered in the early Nineties. It was pure Withnail and I – with myself cast as Marwood. I won’t say who Withnail was!

Watching the play called The Attic – about the Scottish poet Alan Jackson, going out of, or rather into his mind, when he decides to spend a year staying in an attic room in the heart of Edingburgh – reminded me a bit about those intense times back then! It was an uncompromising self-examination and shamanic ‘vision-quest’ into the dark night of the soul. The belly of the whale and back. Very demanding on the audience, and the actor, Andrew Floyd – a fellow Stroudie – who gave the role natural gravitas. The performance took place in the tiny, quirky Pentameters Theatre in Hampstead – home of much legendary bohemian luvviness over the years. You had to get to the auditorium through the box office, like a kind of Alice-in-Wonderland rabbit hole. The stage took up half the space, so it felt like we were in the attic with this ‘poet on the verge of a nervous breakdown’. There was nowhere to hide – and Alan/Andrew explored every nook and cranny, every wart and flaw of his psyche. ‘I am going to go and stand in my own fire’, wrote Jackson, and so he did. The dispatches from the fiery abyss are dense, coded, with flashes of lucid luminescence and righteous ire. At times I wondered if this would work better on the page, than the stage – and it risked becoming a terribly self-important and self-indulgent anthology show of Jackson’s life and works. And yet you have to admire the old goat – standing on his isolated mountain precipice, looking down on the world with scorn and wonder. The fact that he survived, and was able to articulate his experience is an achievement in itself. Poetry redeemeth the man – as art can so often redeem life. It transforms the raw materials we are given into something if not always wonderful, then certainly memorable – we have existed and we have left our mark. Our daubings in grease-paint and ink occasional touch another life – and we pass on the fire.

In Comes I!

Saturday 19th November

The Fine Lady of Banbury, photographed at the Hobby Horse Fair 2010 by Kevan Manwaring

Today I took a sunny ride down to Bath to experience the raggle taggle delights of the first ‘Mummers Unconvention’ – a gathering of performers, academics, enthusiasts and support teams involved in the obscure world of ‘Mummers Plays – the possibly ancient folk street theatre traditionally performed over Yuletide by amateur locals, who wear a colourful variety of disguises (hence, guizers) to ‘keep mum’ – affording them a certain degree of anonymity, so their satirical skits can cock a snook at the lord of the manor/figure of authority, or, in modern palance – stick it to the man. Although these whimsical ritual dramas, seem far from being anarchic – harmless English fun, to some, along with Morris-dancing, to which it is joined at the ankle (by bells).

It was a beautiful sunny November day, as I rolled into town, noticing the Occupy camp set up in Queens Square. Good on them! (tis a pity they didn’t join in the Unconvention to spread their message: I can imagine a modern day Mummers’, with ‘Old Father Capitalist’; ‘the Whore of Babylon’; ‘Lord Mammon’; the ‘Universal Protester’; ‘PC Plod’; ‘Cokehead the Stockbroker’, etc – depicting the death and resurrection and death of the ailing Economy, aka ‘the Boom and Bust Show’!)

I parked up and walked to the Cross Baths, where the various teams were gathering – an outlandish array of characters: clowns and kings, damsels and knights, men with beards in drag, in a mufti uniform of eras, straddling pantomime horses, others blacked up – like dodgy extras from a League of Gentlemen skit. There was something surreal and slightly disturbing about this defiantly unPC entourage standing there in broad daylight – as though the guilty contents of forgotten dreams had erupted into the light: a cast of archetypes, stereotypes, shadow-dwellers and Id-merchants we keep a collective lid on. Yet it brought an explosion of joy and colour to the streets of Bath. As the Mummers queued up alongside BHS like bargan-hunters in the January sales, waiting for the start of the procession, they brought bemused and amused expressions to the faces shoppers and passersby. And then they were off, wending their way through the hustle and bustle of Stall Street. The home-made ‘moochers’ provided a welcome relief to the bourgeois boutiques of the High Street. This was unchic, anti-fashion. If there’s nowt so queer as folk then this was a Pride Parade of the mad, glad and ungainly! The Mummers were just what Bath needed, to stop taking itself too seriously. Yet the elegant Bath architecture provided a photogenic backdrop for this buffoonery – the presence of the Mummers transformed familiar landmarks. The golden Bath stone glowed brightly in the afternoon sun as they made their way accompanied by drum, squeezebox and pipes. It could have been a Wicker Man re-enactment society, except these folk were for real – inhabiting their roles with serious silliness: ‘Make way for the fine lady!’ called one of the Fine Lady Revellers from Banbury (home of its own Hobby Horse Festival), sweeping a path with her broom. It is rare indeed to see so many Mummers Players together – as most only perform at Yuletide, in one locale, and don’t travel around like Morris sides often do. They are fixed to their location and ‘traditional’ time of year. This was ‘the first attempt of its kind to bring together groups from all over the country and beyond, as a way to spread the word about this fascinating and vibrant drama.’ The ‘unconvention’ was convened by Ian Gilchrist – of the Widcombe Mummers (who perform on New Year’s Day in the Widcombe ‘village’ area). They were conspicuous by their absence today (as the host team) but I did bump into their hobby horse man – Rob Miller – who had made his own ‘oss’ and joined the side… Much-missed local folklore expert, druid and bonzo soul Tim Sebastian played the part of ‘the King of the Beggars of Holloway’ (an actual local character). He would have loved today, having been responsible for instigating a number of absurd traditions himself including cheese-blessing and cucumber-dancing!

Among the teams present were the wonderfully named Sompting Tiptereers, Herga, Bal de Malcasats (Spain), plus the Bristol Rag (performing the Nine Lives of Brunel), Frome Valley, Gloucestershire Morris, Suffolk Howlers, Stony Stratford, Weston (Bath), Potterne Christmas Boys, Fine Lady’s Revellers, and Langport. A Motley team was put together with any members whose full side couldn’t attend.

The surreal raggle taggle procession wended its way around the city centre – along the narrow streets – ending up at the Chapel Arts Centre, where their was a ‘Mayor’s Reception’. Local MP Don Foster played to the crowd. The bar did a roaring trade.

After this pitstop the teams spread out around the town to perform in one of four locations. I caught performances on Stall Street, Old Bond Street and in front of the Abbey. The Catalan team, Ball de Malcasats (Dance of the Bad Marriages) – a traditional street drama from Vilanova i la Geltrú, a coastal resort near Barcelona, Catalunya – were fascinating to watch. Some of their patter was translated as they went along, but there was little need: it was universal, yet at the same time also very Spanish! The comic characters were instantly recognizable – the cuckold, the buffoon, the flirtatious wife, the corrupt priest, the pontificating politician, the bullying baddy. There were very similar to the cast of the Commedia dell Arte, the Comedy of Art, of the Profession – performed in Venice, in half-masks.

During the first Bardic Festival of Bath back in 1998 I had my own Mummers Play, ‘The Head of Winter’, performed in this style by local actors. It was during this festival that I won the Bardic Chair – with my poem, ‘Spring Fall: the story of Sulis and Bladud of Bath’. This was inspired in part by the Roman ‘mummers mask’ found under Stall Street by workman and now in the Roman Baths Museum. This would have been used in the theatre once part of the city-wide temple complex that existed during the Roman occupation. I wondered what kind of play would have been performed for pilgrims – a sacred drama illuminating the mysteries of the mysterious hot springs perhaps? And this gave birth to my ‘play’ (a ritual dialogue between Bladud and Sulis) performed with my partner at the time, Emily Tavakoly.

I have been interested in this form since back in my old home town of Northampton, where I devised a piece of mummery called ‘The Storyteller’s Faerie Trial’. This never happened in the end, but it set me off on my own storyteller’s adventure – taking me to Bath, where I became Bard – and onto Stroud. More recently I wrote an ‘eco-mummers’ play called ‘Wassailing Avalon’, set in the Somerset Levels and featuring many Glastonbury ‘archetypes’. I hope one day it’ll be performed on the streets of Glastonbury! (here’s a link in case you’re tempted).

Among the most powerful performances was by the super-annuated Potterne Christmas Boys, whose collective age must be a few centuries. They simply walked on in silence – forming a circle and then a line – dramatic in front of the Abbey. Then, like Quakers, they began to speak, as though seized by spirit – introducing themselves in the traditional way. The characters were the usual misfits (Old Father Christmas; Saint George; the Turkish Knight; the Doctor; plus one called Almanac – who was a bit of a druid type). The nice touch was after the ritual combat, when Saint George slew the Turkish Knight – it was the Turkish Knight who was resurrected by the Doctor,in a fine show of humanitarianism. Then they sang a song about being ‘all wounded together’ which was quite touching. These guys you could tell were the real deal – less ‘business’ but more gravitas. Watching them really felt like a window into the past. Many of the Mummers died out literally, due to the devastation of the First World War. The living link seemed lost – and yet, it has been miraculously revived, like Saint George, and lives on ‘to fight another day’. Hip hip hooray!

All in all, a fascinating day, which very much relates to my book Turning the Wheel: seasonal Britain on two wheels – which features the Marshfield, Keynsham and Southstoke Mummers. Here’s to the survival of such colourful eccentricity – stopping life getting too dull or normal!

Last night saw the culmination of two writer’s journeys as Ola (my friend from Germany, now living in Bath) and I launched our books (The Firekeeper’s Daughter; & The Burning Path, respectively) at Waterstones, Bath – the final event of the ‘Awen Spring’ programme, which saw 6 new titles being published over 4 separate events these last 4 months – quite a start to the year! My book began in 2008 – when I wrote the first draft. I worked on the second draft last May, as Writer-in-Residence in El Gouna; and the third in Italy this April. It is the fourth part of my fantasy epic, The Windsmith Elegy, begun in 2002 while a student on the MA in Creative Writing at Cardiff University. With the publication of the final volume next year (touchwood) it’ll be the end of a ten year project – my magnum opus will weigh in at half a million woods. The Burning Path is the slimmest volume of the series, but has taken me the longest to complete – partly due to other commitments (I have written two non-fiction books during 2008-2011: The Way of Awen; & Turning the Wheel, out later this year – as well as a collection of poetry, and contributor to other anthologies). But it has also been a hard book to write because of challenging personal circumstances and a wish to achieve an austere aesthetic inspired in part by a quote from Antoine de St Exupery: ‘Perfection then, is finally achieved, not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.’ This is what I aspired to – it’s harder to write a (good) short book than a long one. Quality, not quantity. Moving from my home of 14 years in Bath late last year was very much a physical manifestation of this ethos – about letting go, and only keeping what you really need. My book’s main theme concerns the idea: what are you prepared to lose for that which you love? Well, I have made several sacrifices in the writing of this book – not least the sheer graft of its composition and production (for little or no reward – or guarantee of one). But yesterday this theme took on a tangible aspect as I rushed back from an OU meeting in Milton Keynes in time for the launch at Waterstones, Bath, that evening – I was going so fast on my motorbike that my panniers blew away! I was twenty miles down the road before I realised – like Edward Lear’s man from Bicester (below) – retraced my steps but couldn’t find them. They contained all my camping gear which I was planning to use that night, staying over at my friend Marko’s birthday bash (a legendary gathering of Irish musicians and characters). But I had to cut my losses, and put the ‘pedal to the metal’ to get to the launch on time, rushing down the M4. The gods were with me and I made it – just in time – arriving bang on 7pm. a crowd had gathered – probably wondering where I was. I quickly got changed and introduced the evening and Ola’s book – she took over and did a great talk and reading, answering some interesting questions from the floor afterwards. Then it was my turn – I summoned some energy, some awen, from somewhere – and introduced my novel. I read an extract: ‘The Sandsweepers of Assekrem’ – and fielded some questions. Afterwards, we toasted the books with some Lindisfarne Mead. We did it! It had been quite a journey for both of us – Ola’s first book, my um fifteenth? It doesn’t seem to get any less stressful – no matter how well it is all planned, it always seems to end up ‘hot water and towels’ in the middle of the night. A book launch can be a somewhat fraught affair – exhausting and exhilarating – as the proud parent brings a new creation into the world! This particular ‘labour’ was relatively smooth – thanks to all the midwives! Bidding a farewell to the fellowship heading in different directions, we decamped to the Circus for some galvanising tea and cake before heading off into the dark wilds of Somerset for Marko’s birthday bash – when we finally found it (The King’s Head in Coleford, a pub lost in its own timewarp) the party was in full swing. There was a lively Irish session in process, taking everyone away with the fairies. I gifted Marko a copy of Ola’s book and he orderd me a jar of the dark stuff. Never had a pint of Guinness tasted so good! We toasted the man himself, and our achievement. It had been quite a day. Words on Fire tour had begun!

*There was an old soldier of Bicester,
Was walking one day with his sister,
A bull, with one poke,
Toss’d her into an oak,
Before the old gentleman miss’d her.

`O Mole! the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole, row! For the music and the call must be for us.’ The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

24-27 June

The Gates of Dawn by Herbert Draper

We have been blessed with magnificent weather the last few days – the sun has well and truly had his hat on. When the sun doth shine, the English summer is a glorious thing and I would not want to be anywhere else on Earth. Shaman-poet of The Doors, Jim Morrison once said ‘No eternal reward shall forgive us now for wasting the dawn,’ and having missed the solstice sunrise I thought I’d better make an effort to see it while it was at the same place (over the solstice period the sunrise & sunset stays at the same time for 3-4 days: 4.44am & 9.22pm in England), so on Midsummer morning I awoke before dawn and, after listening to the exquisite pre-dawn chorus over a cuppa in my back garden, I headed up the hill to Bathampton Down (home of an Iron Age tribe – who sculpted it into earthworks and field systems; an effigy of the triple-aspect goddess was discovered dating from that period in the road above mine). I made a bee-line for Sham Castle, a local folly which I thought would be the perfect place to greet the midsummer sun. While I waited in the brightening light I made some notes and had a flash of inspiration for a story, which I wrote up later that day (‘The King of the Sun and the Queen of the Moon’). Although the sun decided not to make a dramatic debut that morning you could still feel the quickening of nature – the surge of energy rippling across the land like a tidal bore. On this wave of solar power – the ‘high tide’ of the year – I launched my latest book the next day…

Launching The Way of Awen - Chapel Arts Centre, Bath, June 25th

The 25th June was the official launch date of The Way of Awen: journey of a bard, and I planned to do something to ‘wet the baby’s head’ in Bath – when I discovered that penbeirdd Robin Williamson was playing at Chapel Arts Centre on the same night (an event I did not want to miss) I decided to find a way of bringing the events together, so I booked the Live Arts Cafe downstairs for 6-8pm (with the help of my friend, Svanur, centre manager) leaving time to see Robin’s show after – and it all worked beautifully. Robin had generously contributed to The Bardic Handbook – which came out four years ago – and so it seemed apt to combine the events. He was most accommodating about it, and popped down at the start, after I had given him a hand bringing in his instruments. To have him there was such an honour, as he’s been such an inspiration – so to Greywolf, aka Philip Shallcrass (late of the British Druid Order), who was one of the key people to introduce me to the concept of Awen in the mid-Nineties. I was delighted when he turned up with his friend Eva and his son Joe. I thanked both these awesome bard-druids at the start of my talk – presenting them each with a copy – before reading extracts from the book. There was a good crowd – including Franklin, the Bard of Basswood all the way from Buffalo, USA – who seemed to respond well to what I shared. The mead flowed and the atmosphere was pleasant – helped enormously by the graceful solutions of Saravian, who kindly created a lovely ambience at the start, with candles, incense and her beautiful music. I couldn’t have done it without her.

Saravian gets the awen flowing at my book launch

In many ways it felt like a very successful launch – it’s important to honour achievement of any kind, to mark the completion of a project, the manifestation of vision, craft, co-operation and sheer hard work. Afterwards, we decamped upstairs to enjoy a fabulous concert from Robin Williamson – probably the best I’ve seen him do. He did some amazing Celtic tunes on his harp, weaving stories, jokes, anecdotes and songs seamlessly together. He did a fantastic cover of Dylan’s ‘No Direction Home’; some of The Beatles ‘Within, Without You’; a slow, beautiful version of ‘The Irish Rover’; and even a blues number – on the harp! It was a pleasure to hear a couple of his new songs, and some from his back catalogue (eg the ever poignant ‘Political Lies’), a deeply touching one about his son, Gavin, as well as one from his time in California in the Sixties. He did a couple of classic British ballads, ‘The Death of Robin Hood’ and ‘Lord Barnard’ – overall, an impressive set showing his incredible range. One could really appreciate the fact this was a man who has been performing as long as I’ve been alive – his technical virtuosity and repertoire is awesome. He truly is Britain’s greatest living bard. To enjoy such a concert after my book launch really was the icing on the cake – when one works on such a big project like my book (really 20 years in the making, as it draws upon journals and notebooks from that period), organise the launch, entertain everyone, play the host, give a reading, etc, one can feel depleted – but a concert like Robin’s really replenishes the well.

The next day I had to get up early and get my act together for a creative writing dayschool in the lovely Wiltshire town of Devizes, followed by a camping trip with friends. The plan was to rendezvous at the Barge, Honeystreet, but when I rolled up there on the Triumph Legend I found it to be completely jammed with revellers, there for the bicenternary bash – a mini music festival. You couldn’t swing a cat, let along pitch three tents and park three vehicles. I looked around for my friends amid the merry but mellow crowds, to no avail. I procured a pint of Croppie – brewed by the Barge – in my pewter tankard and supped it on the canal bank, cooling off after a hot day’s work and riding. After trying to contact my friends I discovered a text explaining the change of plans – they had found a campsite in Bishop Cannings – and so I togged up again, into my sweaty leathers, and set off down the backlanes.

Daw, Helen and Daryl at Bishop Cannings camp

To my relief I found my friends, pitched up in a quiet campsite. I was offered a cold beer – things were looking up. I finally managed to pitch my tent, somewhat hampered by the ale. The campsite – little more than a lawn – could hardly have been more different than the chaos at the Barge. Yet later, after a meal, my poet friend Jay arrived and drove us over to soak up some of the Bacchanlian vibes. A band called The Hub was on – young, loud and belting out various covers with the same three chords and hoarse vocals – but the crowd was dancing and Jay and I joined in. There was a certain hick chic to the whole thing. You really feel you’re in the Wild West Country, at the Barge, with its eccentric demographic of boaties, croppies, bikers, yokels, druids, bards, boozers and glampers (glamorous campers – the word of the weekend). We didn’t stay long enough to incur brain damage – from the cider or the music – shooting off into the tranquil night with a little relief (and great relief at not camping there). Jay insisted we visited Avebury in the light of the midsummer full moon, which was truly enchanting and worth the effort.

'...like sleeping in a Samuel Palmer painting'

We three poets – Jay, Dawn and I – wandered around in the silvery light, savouring the spell-binding beauty of the place. There wasn’t a soul in sight – and the place regained its ancient glory in the glow of the moon, the enchantment not challenged by the traffic and crowds of the daytime. We processed along the chalky ridge – as hard and bright as compacted snow – our shadows proud on the opposite bank like an ogham. Dawn and I spotted a shooting star exploding like a firework over the hill towards Silbury. I made a wish for a loved one. At the beech grove, contained within its matrix of roots, we lent against the smooth grey trunks and nearly descended into Rip Van Winkle-like slumber, from which it was hard to extricate ourselves. With the honey moon lambent through the leaves, sheep huddled quietly nearby, a deep peace over the land, and a benign golden warmth pervading everything, it was like falling asleep in a Samuel Palmer painting. The next day, after resurrecting ourselves, we struck camp and headed up to the Wansdyke, parking up in the droveway by Milk Hill and heading up to Adam’s Grave to enjoy the 360 degree view. The cool breeze was a relief – it was scorching – and the light and space helped to clear my head. You can really get a perspective on things at such a place. Starting to feel weak – having only had a handful of strawberries for breakfast – we wended our way over to Avebury, where we grabbed some lunch at the Red Lion. I bumped into my biker buddy Nigel, who had been up for the whole week. He had played the Oak King in the ceremony at Stonehenge the day before – duelling with, and ultimately being defeated by, his rival/brother the Holly King, who takes his place as consort to the Goddess for the second half of the year. This was my third visit to Avebury in a week, (it’s the hub of things at this time of year, as it probably was thousands of years ago) but I wished to be there for my friend Michael Dames’ launch – who was celebrating the publication of his new (and apparently last) titles, Silbury: resolving the enigma, by The History Press.

Michael Dames launching his latest Silbury book, Avebury, June 27

He was standing outside the National Trust shop with a kind of ‘art altar’ illustrating his theory of the hill, the largest man-made mound in Europe, aligned with the phases of the moon at certain times of the year. He gave a colourful demonstration, placing his model of Silbury on his head at one point. He seemed prepared to act the clown, but like many clowns, he was prone to fits of grumpy despondency. Yet, he would ‘revive’, like John Barleycorn, regaining his sunny persona and merry twinkle and pass round glasses of wine. I chatted with the publisher of my Lost Islands, Bob Trubshaw, (Heart of Albion Press) who videoed the whole thing for posterity.

sitting with Michael outside the National Trust shop, Avebury

I was wilting by this point – after alot of sun, beer and little sleep – and so I headed home for a much needed ‘quiet night in’ (watching Christopher Eccleston on superb form in ‘Lennon Naked’). I felt I had truly made the most of this exceptional weekend – apparently a time of great cosmic events (full moon; lunar eclipse; Grand Cross; the sun and moon in alignment with the centre of the galaxy…!). Exhilarating and exhausting and utterly memorable.

This extract sums up the last few magical days perfectly…

‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ – from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces–meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognised again under it.

Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent, silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways. Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them, and mystery once more held field and river.

Then a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity.

`It’s gone!’ sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. `So beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!’ he cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound.

`Now it passes on and I begin to lose it,’ he said presently. `O Mole! the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole, row! For the music and the call must be for us.’

The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. `I hear nothing myself,’ he said, `but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.’